


Rich Girl

by sunfirestrike



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert, tbh Jim creeps the hell out of me in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-08 22:40:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6876970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunfirestrike/pseuds/sunfirestrike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Jim Moriarty imagine based on the song Rich Girl by Gwen Stefani.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rich Girl

**Author's Note:**

> A special thanks to my friend Kat for coming up with the plot to this!

_If I were a rich girl ___  
_Na na na na na na na na na na na na na na na_

You were poor. Dirt poor. Poor as could be. The clothes on your back, the 10 dollars in your pocket, and the equipment in your bag were all you had. But, you see, you had a very special set of skills. One that you often used to your advantage. You were smart, resourceful, and fairly flexible. Whatever life threw your way you could handle it, one way or another. But the other way meant using your skills. It’s not that you wanted to be a criminal, it’s that you needed to. You needed to, to survive, to one day be able to leave that life behind you for good.

See, I’d have all the money in the world, if I was a wealthy girl  
No man could test me, impress me, my cash flow would never ever end  
Cause I’d have all the money in the world, if I was a wealthy girl

You looked out over the city of London from the roof top you stood on. Cool night wind chilling you to the bone.You grab the grappling hook out of your bag, and throw it around a chimney. You tug on it to make sure it will stay in place, then you grip the rope and slide down to the 11th floor of the 15 story building. You slide open the window of some playboys bachelor pad, that looked like he had way to much money to spend for his own good. He wouldn’t miss any of the things you were going to take.

You slink around the penthouse, swiping one of the five Rolex’s he had from his vanity just outside his bathroom. You move to the kitchen, hiding in the shadows as you do so. You slide around the kitchen island, nicking a few apples to give to Phyllis, an elderly, homeless lady that you often spoke to.

You glide over to couch, picking up an expensive looking pair of diamond earrings, that was no doubtfully left by one of his one night stands. You sling your duffel bag over your shoulder, about to climb up the grappling hook when the lights click on, and an Irish drawl stops you in your place.

“You know, most people wouldn’t dare to steal from me,” he muses.

_Think what that money could bring_  
_I’d buy everything_  
_Clean out Vivienne Westwood_  
_In my Galliano gown_  
_No, wouldn’t just have one hood_  
_A Hollywood mansion if I could  
_Please book me first class to my fancy house in London town__

 _ _ _You spin around to be met with the sight of a brown haired man in a white Westwood suit, sloshing a class of scotch in his hand, a smirk holding it’s place on his face, and a dangerous twinkle in his eyes.___

 _ _ _

You’re frozen in place, gaping at him, your brain trying to come up with some excuse, but it fails you as you stutter.

“I-I-I…”

Your sputtering seems to amuse him more.

“You’ve got guts, kid. I admire that. What’s your name?” It takes you a minute to process what he just ask you.

“(Y/N),” You tell him. You don’t know why you do. You don’t know why you just haven’t jumped out the window, and run for your life. But what startles you even more than your own actions, or lack thereof, is his actions. Why isn’t he scared shitless of a burglar in his home? Why hasn’t he run out the door screaming? Why hasn’t he phoned Scotland Yard? Why is he just standing there with a devilish smile on his face? His next question answers all of yours.

“Do you know who I am, (Y/N)?”

If you were off guard before, you’re even more off guard now. You think about your answer for a second before responding.

“I’m guessing some rich as fuck playboy, judging from the five Rolex’s on the vanity, and the earrings that clearly do not belong to you that I found in your couch,” is your snarky reply.

His chuckle sends shivers down your spine, his eyes are a bit darker now, and his smile has an undertone of spite, as he says,

“Actually, it’s Jim, Jim Moriarty.”

Your eyes go wide with fear, you had heard that name on the streets, and those who spoke it, you never saw again. He laughs wickedly at the terror in your eyes. His caterwauling is the last thing you hear, as your world goes black, when your head hits the floor as someone tackles you.

___


End file.
